


Sherlock: Earl of Holmes

by ATokenATrifle



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Martin Freeman - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Castles, Doctor John Watson, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Implied Johnlock, Kings & Queens, London needs a new doctor, Mycroft causing trouble, Mystery, Prince Sherlock, Prince!lock, Sherlock-centric, chainmail, horse & cart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:04:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATokenATrifle/pseuds/ATokenATrifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1450 AD</p><p>The time of Kings & Queens, Princes and Nobles, we see Sherlock: Earl of Holmes return from battle with an extra soldier on board... Doctor John Watson</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

__

_ _

_**London 1450AD** _

The time of Kings and Queens, knights and court jesters, we find ourselves placed squarely in the battlefields of Great Thurlow, England. Sherlock: Earl of Holmes had been out at battle for the better part of eight weeks. During this time, or so he’d been told, it had been discovered there was a trained doctor among their ranks, fighting on the side of the English, but not of Sherlock’s shire.

@@@

Doctor John Watson sat in the back of the rickety carriage, feeling each bump, turn and divot in the road, his body aching further with each knock. In a field strewn with bodies, Lord Stamford had found him wounded. Not severely but enough that he would need medical attention of someone other than himself. The heavy chain mail covering most of his body proved far from impenetrable. A gaping wound in his shoulder was the after effects of an unfortunate meeting with a sword.

He sat now, slumped against the wall, inches from laying on the floor. His body weak from blood loss, his chain mail adding to the discomfort he was already experiencing. It rubbed, and it stung, and it stank. Body heat, blood, sweat and battle all melding to create a smell no one wanted to be near. Lord Stamford was sat next to him trying to keep him upright, for the most part unsuccessfully,

"It's not like I have anything to go home to. I've no money to afford a place to live, and now with my shoulder, I'm good as useless to anyone." He explained as the carriage rolled on.

"Not true, you'll mend and we'll get you set up in London."

"Right, okay." He nodded. "And how do you suppose we do that?"

A full days’ travel before the carriage rolled through the gates and into the barbican of the Holmes castle in London. Watson's shoulder injury had been packed up and tended to temporarily in an effort to stop bleeding. Lady Hooper, the castle mortician, was busy laying out a number of bodies, people who had died recently in a spate of seemingly unrelated circumstances, but took time out to tend to Doctor Watson, unable to stitch his own wound on the back of his shoulder.

"Thank you Lady Hooper." He offered, his arm still tender, but at least the wound was now clean and closed, an opium mixture administered to help with the pain.

"Very welcome, will you be staying on with us for long?"

"Lord Stamford has some work lined up for me."

"Good, we need a good doctor around here."

Watson sat with Lord Stamford momentarily as Lady Hooper left the room to tend the mortuary. He looked around, taking in his surrounding, the room that would become his office. It was a small, damp room used by the former doctor, containing what appeared to be a consultation bed, a desk and a chair.

"So what happened to this last doctor?"

"Not one hundred percent sure, to be honest. He just up and died one day."

"Right. Just like that, up and died?"

Stamford nodded his head quickly as they up and left the room, keen not to elaborate any further.

Following a period of rest, Lord Stamford was charged with showing Doctor Watson around the castle and village contained within. They'd entered through the barbican, Watson watching through a crack in the top of the carriage as the portcullis opened and allowed their passage. They crossed over the drawbridge and entered the main grounds of the castle. Now as they walked around, they looked through the chapel, inner ward, hall and keep while discussion turned to rooms available, Watson taking everything in his attempt to remember his new surroundings.

Descending from an inspection of the walkway, Watson found himself face to face with a man in black robes, accentuated with a royal blue fur collar.

"Lord Stamford, I see you've brought our new doctor?"

Watson looked at him, confused, unable to work out how he'd ascertained that he was _a_ doctor, let alone _their_ doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

The door to the living chamber swung open slowly, Stamford nervous, and Watson unsure of what to expect. The only spare room in the keep, he was taking up residence with Sherlock, though not aware of it at the time. Sherlock had met them at the front door to the residence, bluestone walls, candles to provide light in the darkened corners and small, but comfortable makeshift beds. Rich fabrics letting Watson know this was certainly more than a standard room.

"John, this is Sherlock..."

"Your Lordship," Watson greeted him.

His aloof nature saw him smile curtly and start walking around the main living area. "It will be good to keep a doctor close."

Watson looked at him momentarily, his eyes scanning the room around him. His shoulder still ached, keeping him slightly distracted from the happenings around him. So distracted was he that he failed to notice Stamford slip out of the quarters.

"This could be very nice, very nice indeed," Watson said.

"Excellent, we'll have Lady Hudson help get you settled."

Lady Hudson appeared in the doorway. "Sherlock, you've found yourself a new doctor."

"Lady Hudson, I have, and we will need a room made up for him.

"What? In here?" She laughed.

"Yes, Lady Hudson, in here," Sherlock groaned. "It is the only room left in the keep."

"Right, well, I'm not one to judge." She held her hands up in defeat, walking off to busy herself with the preparations of the spare room.

Watson looked across at Earl Sherlock, his face full of angles, and still dressed in his royal regalia; leather boots, slim fit pants, black long sleeved top sitting underneath the same black fur cape he had worn earlier, set off by the blue collar on it.

"Suitable, yes?" Sherlock looked to him for approval.

"Yes, yes of course." Watson nodded.

"Excellent. I'll speak to Lady Hudson, we'll source you some more garments and get you settled in. Dinner will be on shortly, so do wash up and come to the dining hall."

"Thank you, your lordship." Watson held his hand out to shake Sherlock's in a friendly gesture.

"Please, call me Sherlock." He shook Watson's hand. "I must away, I'll see you momentarily."

Watson was helped to ready himself for dinner, a warm bath and fresh clothing along with some further treatment from Lady Hooper and Watson started his walk towards the dining room. He hoped he remembered how to find it from the tour Stamford had given him earlier. The corridors were long and cold, but it was shelter and he was warm, his first hot bath in weeks had left him calm, helping his mood greatly. Word of his existence and appointment as the new doctor had spread quickly, so he thought nothing of the stunning brunette who summoned him into a darkened corridor.

“Hello?”

“Follow me...” she began, turning to walk away.

Watson stood there, seemingly immovable, until her voice was joined by that of an unknown male.

“You’ll follow, if you know what’s good for you.”

Not wanting to entertain that idea, Watson walked through the darkened corridor, down a flight of stairs and into a cold, damp room. Candlelight flickered around him, providing shadows that wouldn’t be as scary in the light of day. Coupled with the sound of dripping water, and puddles on the ground it wasn’t an overly pleasant place to be stuck. Watson was greeted by another man, in dress not too indifferent to that of Earl Sherlock’s, though he was taller, his nose more pointed and his hair less prominent; thinning compared to the brunette curls that rested upon the top of Sherlock’s head.

Watson stood looking at him, trying to read him. “C’n I help you?”

“I believe you can, yes.” A smile flittered across his face briefly. “Earl of Holmes, how well do you know him?”

Watson cocked an eyebrow. “Well, not very well at all, if I’m honest.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Well, yes.”

Both men stood assessing each other for a few moments, Watson the first to break the silence.

“So, what are we doing here then, hmm?” Watson’s balance shifted from foot to foot as he assessed the room around him, looking for exits.

“I’d like to make a deal of sorts with you, in regards to Sherlock.”

“And that would entail what, exactly?” Watson was starting to think this deal to be the castle doctor was not as good as it initially seemed. He cursed Stamford under his breath and waited for an answer.


	3. Chapter 3

“No, I’m not interested.” Watson shook his head, maintaining eye contact with the man before him.

Still without identity, the stranger had offered him money in exchange for information on the Earl of Holmes. Watson argued this would amount to nothing short of treason and he knew _exactly_ what the punishment for that would be.

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust the Earl of Holmes of all people?” A sly smile spread across the strangers’ face as he searched Watson for answers.

“Who says I trust him?”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly. All things considered, you don’t know him at all.”

“Yes, well, I have been offered a paying position as a doctor, so I won’t be needing more than my fair share.”

“It would be nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with.” The stranger reasoned.

“Still, no thank you. Are we done here?”

“I’m not sure, are we?”

Watson turned and walked towards the door opening, stopping at the sound of a throat clearing.

“I do worry about him... constantly.”

The sun was disappearing from the sky as Watson started towards the dining hall. He was greeted by the Earl pacing back and forth by the doorway.

“John, there you are.”

“Sorry, just met a friend of yours. Well, a friend of sorts.”

“What did he want?”

“Seems very keen on you.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

Watson’s eyes darted about quickly. “Ahh, yes, yes he did.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Think it through, next time. We could’ve split the fee.” Sherlock looks at him, perplexed.

“So, why aren’t you in at dinner?”

Sherlock pushed the doors to the dining hall open and they walked through to the top table. Loud clattering and banging echoed from the walls and ceiling, cups, saucers, bowls, plates and cutlery all chiming to create a chorus. Lady Hudson was helped by a number of chamber maids in the preparation and service of meals.

“This is Angelo.” Sherlock gestured to a gentleman approaching the main dining table. “He looks after our table.”

“Our table?” Watson mumbled to himself. “Am I sitting here?”

“Yes of course, sit.” Sherlock gestured to the chair next to him. “I like to keep my doctor close by.” He mused, seated at the table, fingers steepled in front of him.

“This man, he helped me.” Angelo interrupted. “They said I done a murder, but I didn’t, and this man here helped prove I didn’t do it.”

Watson looked across at Sherlock, then back up at Angelo.

“Not quite, Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking. Now he works here to keep an eye on him.”

“And very grateful I am, Your Lordship.”

Walking back from dinner, the two bypassed the main halls and slipped into the mortuary. Watson carried a small, burning torch to illuminate the path. The room closed up for the night, and Lady Hooper retired to her chambers meant that Sherlock and Watson were free to move about as they pleased.

“So, what are we actually doing in here?” Watson asked.

“Well, doctor, we have had four mysterious deaths within my city in the past week. Nothing previously wrong with these people, except that they just... died.”

“Right.”

“The second to last one being our local doctor.” Sherlock pulled a plain cloth away from a body laid out on a slab.

The cold night air helped to keep the smell to a minimum, though Watson pulled his jumper up over his nose and mouth to be sure. He looked over the body to identify wounds, none of which were visible in the glow of the lamp. He sniffed around, and couldn’t detect an odour.

“Your Lordship -.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“I can’t detect anything, Sherlock. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say poisoning was the cause of death.”

“As I thought.”

“As you thought?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who would want to poison random people within the castle grounds?”

“Who indeed, Doctor Watson.”

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know I've butchered SiP, and it's mixed up, but that's what we want!

Watson tossed and turned in bed the rest of the night, memories of his last battle haunting him. Swords, bodies, the blunt sound of limbs as they dropped to the ground, and gurgling sounds of death woke him in a sweat. He caught his breath before slumping back down into his bed where he lay awake the rest of the night. Sunlight crept into the room come morning; dressed and ready for breakfast.

“You had nightmares last night.” Sherlock observed.

Watson nodded, flipping through some notes he had made and brought with him.

“What do you make of them?” Sherlock’s voice echoed across the room.

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock nodded to he papers in Watson's hand. “The deaths. What do you make of them?”

Watson shrugged. “Is there any connection at all, do you think? I can’t seem to find one.”

“Between the victims, no.” Sherlock walked into the room, fully dressed as if ready for a new day.

“Poisoning is a very popular way to off people, lately.” Watson offered. “But, tell me, why are you so interested?”

“Because Lestrade is useless at tackling the crime around here. I’ve had more luck solving his mysteries than he has.” Sherlock stalked his way around the room slowly, around the table John was working at.

“And how do you have more luck solving his crimes then?” Watson looked up from his place at the table.

“It’s simple, really. He looks, but does not observe. You, for instance, Doctor Watson. I take it you’ve been overseas quite recently.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You. You’ve been overseas recently. I’d say the Mediterranean?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“It’s only been recently, too. Lord knows you won’t get a tan like that underneath our dreary skies. I also knew you were our doctor before we were introduced. I made a request of Lord Stamford that he return with a new doctor for the town. The next day I see him showing you around places that no one ought to be, frankly.”

“If you’re the Earl, why weren’t you at battle? Aren’t you supposed to -.”

“Yes. I was occupied here with the murders.”

“You think they’re murders, not suicides?”

“Yes. All healthy, no sign of illness, not in battle, and no sign of self harm would tell me someone’s killed them, likely poison.”

Watson was gobsmacked. “Brilliant.”

“You think so?”

“Of course.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.” Sherlock’s mouth curled up into a smirk, which Watson soon mirrored.

Following on from breakfast, Watson returned to his quarters, unsure of what to do with himself. No one had called upon him ill, so he kept to himself; pen and paper came in handy to keep a journal, his thoughts being he should document the strange turn his life had just taken. He was interrupted, Sherlock entered the room without so much as a knock.

“Watson.”

He stood and turned to look at his visitor. “Yes.”

“As a doctor, are you any good?”

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

Watson’s mind is transported back to his previous experiences. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God, yes.” Watson couldn’t answer quickly enough.

“Excellent, we have another body.” Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room, Watson scrambling to keep up with him.

Sherlock and Watson stand with Lestrade, the body of a middle aged woman found near the back corner to the castle. Not difficult to reach, but not an area frequented by inhabitants. Her body was inspected; her clothing and anything near her. She was well dressed; her garments well made, of quality fabrics. Her shoes were also solid, and expertly tailored. There were no belongings around her, though. She hadn’t dropped anything, or carried anything with her to her final resting place.

“What do you see, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked.

They were interrupted before Watson had a chance to answer.

“Wait, who is this?” Lestrade’s glance is passed between the two men.

“This is John Watson. He’s here to help me.” Sherlock is quick to respond. “So, what do you think, doctor?”

“Well, she appears like the rest, doesn’t she? She’s out in the open, no sign of physical trauma except for the fact she’s dead.”

“Very sound observation, there, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock is dry, and to the point.

A crowd of onlookers formed as they went about their task. Sherlock’s vision is bought to a singular point on the ground near one of the victim’s hands.

“Odd.”

“What’s that?” Watson looked up from the body.

“Well, she’s not from around here. She doesn’t live in this area, else I would know her. But it appears she can write, judging by what’s etched in the dirt by her hand.”

“You sure? She might live in the area.”

“No. Her clothes are wet. Weather was coming from the North West last night, and we’re only just about to get rain here. She’s already damp through, she’s got mud on her skin and in her hair, so she’s come from a way just to get in through the gates here and die? How did nobody see anything? Where are her belongings?”

“Her what?” Lestrade questioned.

“Her belongings. Did she bring a bag? She’s not from here, she must’ve travelled with something, or someone.”

A man is pushed to the front of the crowd gathered around.

“It’s vindic.” His voice is assured. “Perhaps she was writing her name.”

“Thank you for your input, Anderson.” Sherlock snapped, Watson turned to look at the scruffy man with a beard and dishevelled clothes. “Or perhaps, she was educated, and was writing in Latin.”

“Latin?” Anderson questioned.

“Yes. Vindicta. Latin for revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” Anderson scoffed and moved away, back through the crowd.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “So, do you think you can help us, Sherlock?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaannnd we're back on track with Study in Pink...

Later that evening in Sherlock’s quarters, John sat with a plate of food in front of him. Not hungry, Sherlock has neglected to take any food from Mrs. Hudson, her continued reminders that she is not their personal cook going unheeded. Still curious about his prior run in with the mysterious man, Watson decides to question Sherlock about who he may be.

“You know, Sherlock, people don’t have arch-enemies.”

Sherlock looked across at him, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“The man I met in the dank room. In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.”

“So who did I meet?” John pressed him for more information.

Sherlock avoided the question. “What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?”

“Well, where I come from we have friends. People we know, people we like, people we don’t like ... girlfriends... boyfriends... husbands and wives.”

“Yes, well, as I was saying – dull. Welcome to Castle Holmes.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then? A Lady Holmes by any chance?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.

“Hmmm.” John stopped, considering this response for a moment. “D’you have a boyfriend then?”

Taken aback, Sherlock’s head whipped around at breakneck speed to look at John.

“Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

Trying to smooth the situation over, John tried again. “So you’ve got a boyfriend then?

Sherlock looks back at him, his attention already focussed on the goings on outside his residence. “No.”

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.” John finished as he cleared his throat.

Silence fell upon the room, John’s attention set squarely on his plate, and Sherlock looked for any signs of activity out in the castle grounds. Any sign of something... off.

“John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...”

“No. No, I’m not asking. No.” John interrupting him, his gaze fixed on his new friend. “I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”

“Good. Thank you.” Sherlock answered with a nod of the head, as he turned his attention back to the yard once again.

“Look across the yard. The mail carrier.”

John stood and walked across to the door.

“Stopped. Nobody getting mail, and nobody giving mail.”

A man stood in the centre of the yard, looking around, not for people in particular, but at the upper levels of the castle. Up at the walkway, back behind him, and

Sherlock mumbled to himself. “Why a mail delivery? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?”

“Don’t stare.”

“You’re staring.” John averted his gaze, back into the residence.

“We can’t both stare.”

Sherlock reached for his robe and left the residence. John followed quickly behind him, as he struggled through his shoulder injury to put his own jacket on. Sherlock watched the intruder on his horse carefully; his eyes darted back and forth across his surroundings.

The man on horse back turned, his gaze set on Sherlock, before he turned his attention back to another part of the grounds, the area in which the last victim had been found. Without waiting, Sherlock stepped outside and walked towards him, John nipping at his heals.

The focus of their attention, the man on the horse, began to ride off immediately. A slow trot at first, before the horse broke into a fast gallop. Sherlock ran across the grass, not checking where he was going, only to be bowled over by another rider on horseback. He scuttled across the grass, pulled himself up quickly and continued at a quick run, through the barbican and out the castle gates.


End file.
